I have said it before and I’ll say it again: I hate doing laundry. I despise gathering it up, loathe folding it and detest putting it away.
Quite frankly, I would rather do the Thanksgiving dishes at Grandma’s with 68 guests who each used an eight-place setting of fine china.
I first learned that I hated doing laundry when I was in the sixth grade and my beautiful mother said, “Say, kid, how about you do the wash?”
Being the type of child who wanted to please her mother, I did my all-out best — and the washing was mine to do from that moment on.
I laundered my brother’s jeans, my sisters’ skirts and my father’s work clothes. I washed sheets, towels and a boatload of swimsuits.
When I first moved out on my own, I put off laundry day for as long as possible. When I finally hit the Laundromat, I was sporting an Easter dress from the eighth grade — the only clean item in my possession — and mismatched socks.
Then I became a mother, and the next thing I knew, I was back to washing clothes for a family of six.
Talk about a smelly hamper and dirty garb from the sandbox. There were malodorous gym clothes and, worst of all, the dreaded sports uniform. You show me someone who thinks that ain’t so bad, and I’ll show you an individual who has never had to empty a football bag.
There are those wise enough to force their children to wash their own garb. I have heard stories of women who delegate wash days, schedule machine time and send their kids out into the world armed with full knowledge of spot removal.
They are better mothers than I.
Although I have one child who can whip up a fantastic meal and another who can operate the vacuum cleaner with some success, I have issues with letting the laundry task go, and I get cold sweats when I think about the family doing it one on one.
At times, I would stand, poised with a stain stick, and perform mini-seminars on pretreatment. I gave detailed demonstrations on bending at the knee to retrieve dirty garments. I even used a clipboard to properly exhibit the benefits of unrolling sport socks before a 20-yard pass into the dirty clothes hamper.
But I always went back to doing the laundry for them.
Think me an enabler if you must, but I have always been scared to death to think my kids would show up at social events with wrinkled attire, smelling like three-day-old socks as the public looked on and scrutinized, “What kind of mother do they have?”
Not on my watch. I quickly decided they could wash their own clothes at college, where no one knows who I am.
That, my dear friends, is why the hampers remained full and my disposition bad.
Recently, with three sons away at campuses far from home, the laundry load began to lessen. In fact, the other day I went on a mission. I don’t know what inspired it. It could have been the basket of unmated socks, the bins of clothes or the stacks of free hangers.
I started washing and drying and sorting like it was my job. I bleached the whites, fluffed the towels and brought socks together that hadn’t seen their mate for the better part of a year. Then I put it all away. As I stood back and gazed upon a dryer that was gloriously empty and without a wet load waiting in the balance, my buttons burst with pride.
It was a moment that lasted fewer than 10 minutes. With the toot of a horn and the squealing of brakes, Huey and Lawrence pulled into the drive with heaping hampers.
“Fall break came just in time,” Lawrence said as he dropped his bounty in front of the washer. “I was running out of things to wear.”
“Yes,” echoed Huey as he gave me a bear hug. “Come with me back to the car so you can help me haul the other hamper in.”
For Thanksgiving this year, I’m breaking out the fine china. Then I’m going to make them do the dishes.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her by sending an email to [email protected].